Blood Over Honour
by SecretlyEvil
Summary: This was an English assignement Write a short story based on Tolkien's world in The Hobbit so I figured I'd post it. I consider it fairly pointless, and it has no original characters from The Hobbit. Please read anyway!


Mist hung in the air, untouched by the wind. It shortened sight, causing surrounding trees to look like strange, blotted masses of darkness. It was dawn, the sixth morning of the dwarfs' skirmishes against the goblin tribes of the Northern Mountains, but if the sun had risen, no one in that area knew of it.  
  
Dwarfs ran among the pine trees at a swift lope, clinking in their mail and holding immense blades and battle axes ready. They peered about warily, as though they could see through the thick fog that masked everything from their eyes but the noses on their faces and the ground under their boots. They could smell blood and sweat coming from themselves and the warriors around them as well.  
  
Suddenly, the goblins burst from the trees, screeching and yelling, wielding small swords or stabbing and thrusting with sharp metal spears. Their The defenders sunk immediately into formation, an enormous, defensive ring that whirled about at blurring speeds. It was a technique that had saved them on numerous occasions, but this time it proved to be less reliable. The goblins, who numbered considerably more, pressed in tight against the dwarfs, surrounding them on all sides and crushing them by sheer weight of numbers. For every wrinkle-skinned goblin head a bearded soldier managed to strike off, two more took its place. Finally realizing their tactics were not succeeding, they broke formation and instead set upon their enemies in groups of three of four, face-to-face in a deadly dance, with the ringing of steel against metal as the music. The feeble spear heads were no match for the heavy axes' blades, and soon the goblins retreated back into the brush.  
  
The severely diminished band of dwarfs was too ragged and exhausted to raise a cheer. Djorn, a young recruit with unusually light-coloured hair and beard, wiped the sweat from his brow and began searching faces for his brother Lorn, who he had lost in the mad scramble. Unable to spot him, he began to scan the ground, frantic, for a sign of his brother, and, sure enough, saw him lying a few feet away with a gash in his chest through the overlapping metal links of his armour. At that moment, their captain spoke.  
  
"This is no time to stop and abandon our duty, now, soldiers. Those of us who can still walk, let us pursue the filth, to the Cracks of Doom if we must," boomed Darco over the moans of the hurt, goblins and dwarfs alike, littered about the ground. The sound was odd, and rang in everyone's ear, as though the mist magnified the volume of his voice tenfold.  
  
"But what of the wounded, Captain?" Djorn called from his kneeling position at Lorn's side. "Will we just leave them to die alone and in silence on this cursed ground?"  
  
Darco approached and laid a hand on Djorn's shoulder. His tone was grave. "'Do not weep for the stolen gold while the thief still runs free', my boy. Pray that their ends come swiftly." With that, before Djorn could raise an objection, he hefted his sword and, with a loud harsh cry that split the silence of the surrounding woods, dashed off to the south, closely followed by the remnants of the once powerful Eastern Dwarf Legion.  
  
Djorn stared after them, glanced at his brother, then back at his comrades. If he did not follow the army, he could never return to his home in the eastern mountains, not when he had abandoned his honour. But he could not leave his brother to die slowly, agonizingly, in these cold empty lands.  
  
He felt a tug on his sleeve, and looked down at his younger brother, who peered up at him with half-closed lids. "Go, brother," he said between shallow breaths. "Do not sacrifice you honour for me. All must die in the end. I am simply leaving this world sooner then most."  
  
"No," said Djorn, shaking his head. "I will not leave you in this place to rot and be picked at by vultures."  
  
After dressing the wound with a cleaning salve and, wrapping a clean cloth around it, he heaved the dwarf to his feet. Lorn tottered for a moment, and stood steady. The brothers headed west, with Lorn leaning against Djorn for support.  
  
For days they wandered the forests and valleys of the region that lay southwest from Middle Earth, the place called Dorran Country, seeking help. They met no one: the goblins from up north had caused quite a mess of things. Lone farms, small villages, and even whole cities were now only piles of rubble. Everyone had fled east of the border, where the great city of Tair stood. For a while during their journey, Djorn played with the idea of passing themselves off as refugees and taking shelter in the city, but knew they were far too south to make it before they were surprised by goblins or Lorn's strength ran out. It certainly had diminished in the last couple of days, and the gaping hole in his chest did not seem to be healing properly.  
  
Finally, on the fifth day of their search for help, Djorn collapsed with the weight of Lorn on his shoulder, whom he was practically carrying by now. They made camp early, if one could call it a camp. They did nothing but lay their mats out on the ground. They were too tired to make a fire, and their food had run out the night before. Djorn lay down on his bed, and before he had taken ten breaths, he was fast asleep.  
  
The next morning, Lorn would not wake. He was cold and stiff, was not breathing, and had not heartbeat. Djorn was a warrior: he knew what that meant.  
  
Lorn was dead.  
  
After burying his brother, Djorn continued on westward, without any real hope of ever reaching safety. As he walked, he wept for his brother.  
  
Hey diddle diddle hey  
  
Diddle hey hey Don't drip your tears In your beard so grey!  
  
A burst of song came from the surrounding trees. It was a clear, pretty voice that sang it, and Djorn knew at once that it was an elf. He was right, for, a moment later, a tall, pointy-eared person dashed out from behind a tree, all smiles and laughter. Her hair was a pale yellow, and her skin a paler. "Oh, your beard is not grey, sir. Then let me change my song."  
  
Hey diddle diddle hey  
  
Diddle hey hey Stay awhile sir Let us sing those tears away!  
  
Djorn had never met such a ridiculously silly character in his life, but he was too curious, too polite, and too hungry to refuse her offer. Which is how he found himself sitting at a tree stump table in the hollow of an enormous oak. The elf woman's name was Marielle, and she was the chieftain of the wood elves of Dorran. They lived in a large community in the forest in which Djorn had been travelling, in trees that were hollowed out.  
  
The elves of Marielle's house were friendly and cheerful. They listened to Djorn's story with sad faces, and when it was over, they sang and danced with fiddles and flutes to cheer him up.  
  
Djorn stayed with the elves from then on. He learned their ways of thinking, and their love of nature. He adopted their gay and happy attitude. Over the years, he earned the elves' complete respect and eventually became a leader among their people. He was wise, calm and reflective in everything he did, made good, sensible decisions in times of difficulty and of prosperity too, and later became known as Djorn the Bearded Sage (they never ceased poking fun at his facial hair, which he refused to shave off)  
  
So goes the tale of the first Elf-Dwarf. 


End file.
